


Tell Me When You're Sober

by Jayden und Verwelkt (SailorVFan10)



Series: For We Are the Beautiful Thieves [16]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Community: mission_insane, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-17
Updated: 2010-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:12:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorVFan10/pseuds/Jayden%20und%20Verwelkt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It'd be nice if you weren't drunk so I could understand what the hell you're trying to tell me.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me When You're Sober

**Author's Note:**

> [Master Table](http://community.livejournal.com/deardisclaimer/49944.html?format=light) // [20\. Cliché](http://community.livejournal.com/deardisclaimer/49944.html?format=light#cutid20)

"Hey, Crawford... I got something to tell you," said Schuldig as he stumbled into the living room, shirt half undone and gait unsteady. All Crawford understood was his name (which had too much emphasis on the 'a's and the 'd' was an extremely emphasized 't'). The rest was a mishmash of syllables that might not have even been English. Not that Schuldig really spoke much English at the flat anyway.

Crawford's eyes never left the infomercial that dared to interrupt a documentary on some sort of ancient civilization that looked suspiciously like Rome. Crawford understood little of it since he only took the _Introduction to Business Japanese_ courses at Rosenkreuz.  
"What is it?" Crawford ignored the slurring—this was a normal occurrence, but that didn't make Schuldig any easier to understand—and focused on getting this over as quick as possible.

Schuldig made his way over to the couch in the darkened room where Crawford was sitting, and leaned heavily against him after flopping clumsily onto the piece of furniture. It groaned in protest and Crawford almost ended up sitting on the wooden armrest. Schuldig reeked of vodka and stale cigarettes and shampoo and something else Crawford didn't want identified, but it smelled like really cheap perfume. He winced and moved as far away from him as possible.

"I have a confession to make," Schuldig drawled, placing all emphasis on his vowels and treating them as if they were umlauted. "A really _big_ confession. Might change the whole course of history even." He waved his arms around as if he was conjuring images in the air, which in his mind, he probably was.  
"Schuldig, everyone in Schwarz has their proverbial closeted skeletons. What makes you think that I want to know about them—" Crawford was stopped mid-sentence by Schuldig cuddling up to him.

 _Just how far gone **are** you?_ Crawford knew that on a normal day Schuldig would have been able to hear that, but alcohol blocked all hopes of Schuldig's gift working until it was flushed out of his bloodstream.  
"You're not listening to me," Schuldig said, pouting. "I'm tryna tell you something."  
"Schuldig, you're slurring all of your words and that makes you hard to—"  
"I'm _not_ slurring my words. I'm perfectly coherent!"  
 _Maybe in your mind you are._ "Just spit it out already, Schuldig. I'm tired and I don't have the patience to deal with your drunken ass right now."

Schuldig pulled away from Crawford and folded his arms.  
"I don't even know how they let you in the bars anyway," Crawford muttered as the narrator on the television went on about Roman forms of entertainment.  
"It's... It's 'cause I look old for my age. Fifteen going on thirty, y'know?"  
"Get to the point."  
"Well, let me tell you a secret, Brad. Well actually, no, I'm not gonna tell you."

Crawford wanted to smack himself in the head.  
"I'm gonna have you _guess_."  
"Schuldig, I am not in the mood for guessing games. It's one in the morning. I'm tired."  
Schuldig grinned. "Oh, but this is a _fun_ game! All the girls at that bar certainly liked all my guessing games. Mostly about the size of my—"  
" _Schuldig_."  
"All right, all right, Brad. Calm the fuck down, 'kay?" Schuldig was back to invading Crawford's personal space. "So, Bradley, tell me something."

Crawford sighed. "My name isn't Bradley, Schuldig. We've been over this."  
Schuldig ignored him and kept going. "Haven't you noticed my looks of longing? The lovey-dovey telepathic messages of love?" He got even closer, which meant he was practically in Crawford's lap. "Brad... Brad, I love you."  
Crawford mentally counted to ten before answering.  
"Schuldig... How many drinks did you have? Are you drunk?"

Schuldig laughed as if that was the funniest thing he was ever told.  
"No! No, of course not! I'm not _drunk_ , okay? I'm totally fucking _hammered_ to the point where it's completely silent." And he grinned as if that was the most rational answer ever.  
 _At least he's honest_.  
Crawford turned the television off, having enough gladiator action for one night, and got up from the couch.  
"Where you going?"  
"To bed," Crawford answered simply. "You should too or you'll regret it in the morning."  
"But—"

Crawford gave him a look and Schuldig pouted again.  
"Can I sleep with you?"  
Crawford stopped in the doorway.  
"Schuldig, you are fifteen years old. You have your own bed."  
 _Besides, if you get sick from your night out, I don't want to hear or see it_.  
"But—"  
" _Go to bed_." Crawford didn't even wait for a response before he left to take up his own advice.

-x-

 _Why hello voices threatening to kill their bosses, why are you in my head?_ Schuldig rubbed his eyes and squinted against the sunlight coming through the curtains. Slowly he sat up and instantly regretted it.  
 _Oh, they're just Crawford's thoughts. Never mind_. He stared at the wall across from his bed, which separated his room from Crawford's office.

He stumbled out of bed and looked in the mirror.  
"Oh God, what the hell did I do last night?" he asked as he examined his face in the mirror. "I look like some drunken hussy instead of the usually hot, gorgeous redhead I see every morning." He frowned as he ran his fingers through his hair, looking around for his pants and finding them nowhere.  
" _Fuck_ , what _did_ I do last night? Did I give some slut my pants or something?"  
Crawford, who angrily slammed his door closed, knocked on Schuldig's door.  
"Crawford, have you seen my—"  
Schuldig saw the look on Crawford's usually composed face and smirked.  
 _They're on my floor_ , Crawford thought, too embarrassed to say anything aloud, despite the fact that it was just him and Schuldig living there.


End file.
